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Oct. 12th, 2014 @ 03:49 pm Hast Thou Not Read?
Tags:
Books


The love of a book
is an unselfish love:
it lies there on the bed,
ready when you are.
And it only takes you
as far on the tour,
as you are willing to walk,
now or later.
It holds its secrets
like ripe fruit,
ready for plucking,
but never falling to the ground.
Its cover is an unlocked door,
Passing through it and into the pages,
the words are locked,
but only as our days are:
to be unlocked
by time and thinking.

I've always gone to libraries,
as a child and as a man.
The shelves are something
to crouch between,
like a trench in the war
against not knowing things.
The pages, some yellowed,
smelling of dust,
are piles and rows of maps.
And we're joining forces,
across the years,
backwards and forwards:
adventurers who'll never meet,
looking for some same abstract treasure.
The library is an internet
for your feet.

When I was an un-Christian man,
I was writing one long book,
about love and women and alcohol.
And painting a portrait of sadness
just right
brings happiness to the painter.
But all of that fumbling with metaphors
was just grappling toward
the word of God.

I found God's word on a summer afternoon,
from the mouth of a Baptist preacher.
The Bible's paper and leather and ink
is fading like the world.
But the words it speaks,
and the words you can hear,
are the words of eternal life.

Now used books lie about me,
like the bodies of dead soldiers,
and I see the Bible for what it is:
The Bible is a sacred floor,
on which to build a library,
which (though I didn't know it then)
was the one I was looking for.




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
Oct. 12th, 2014 @ 03:26 pm Night Time Ain't The Light Time
Tags:
The Meaning of the Moon


When I was an atheist,
I found God in the moon.
Now that I'm a theist,
I find God in the sky of day.

And now I realize why
it had to be the moon back then:
Because it is a light
in darkness.




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
Sep. 11th, 2014 @ 11:18 am Written Under One Of My More Well-Known Pen Names
Birthday Poem


The day of birth comes round but once a year,
to tell us that a newness has begun,
and tell us that the days we've left are dear,
the days we've left to spend beneath God's sun.

Our world is full of those of baser sorts.
They enter stores not wearing shirt or shoes.
At times like these my burdened mind resorts
to thinking that we're living in a zoo.

But I don't think that Mr. Darwin's right,
that birthday boys and girls are merely mammals.
I think there's angel in us too: this fight
within: it makes us more than animals.

So, Happy Birthday; we're not in a zoo;
No monkeys we: nor smelling like them too.




--William Shakespeare
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
Aug. 1st, 2014 @ 10:55 am Adam West
Hello West


I recently said goodbye
to an old friend from High School.
He was headed west; his shirt
adorned with a cartoon sun.

His future was so bright,
like a sky so full of stars
it looks just like it's day time.
He's finally beaten the bottle.

I remember when the bottle was winning.
When he was collapsed on his couch,
the bottle standing over him:
empty undefeated glass.

Some people go to the movies,
and dream about being in movies.
Some people go to the movies,
and dream about being a hero.

I used to want to be in movies.
Now I just want to be Batman.




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
Jul. 15th, 2014 @ 12:49 pm Homesicknesses Past
An American Abroad


I was in Europe for three weeks once. I remember, some number of days in, I was struck with the urge to eat a cheeseburger and play baseball. Which was odd, because I never wanted to play baseball when I was in America. I ended up satisfying this feeing by buying a copy of The Freewheeling Bob Dylan, and listening to it while walking around in Europe: it turns out, emotionally speaking, that that's the cheeseburger and baseball of Bob Dylan albums. At least, in Europe, when you're twenty-years-old, in my experience.




Nick Moore
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The Poet Nicholas Moore
Jul. 15th, 2014 @ 12:44 pm Wander Indiana
Tags:
Night Poem
(Upon A Summer Night)



Great works of art
contain here and there
winking from the author.

Like a painting
whose paint records
the texture of the brushstrokes.

I think of this tonight
as I look up
at the blueberry night,

at trees: used toothbrushes,
silhouetted before the moon,
with her golden hair.

And I think: how could a mind
not see an author here?
and if not a mind, at least a heart:

How could it not see God,
in a night, such as tonight?
whose pulse is fireflies.




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
Jun. 5th, 2014 @ 08:20 pm A Table In The Presence Of Mine Enemies
Tags:
Hunger


Did you ever get the feeling you've been fasting too long?
As you stare up at a sky
that's grey and you can't remember
if it's always been that way.

And you long for some white-robed thing.
White like a new piece of paper.
White like a higher world.
And you pray to be made a thick black line,

that no one has to guess about.
Black like a night between two days
making each its own strange self.
Black like the letter of the law.

As your fingers are thinning and restless
as eighth-notes,
in some gaunt and thirsty song.
Did you ever get the feeling you've been fasting too long?




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
May. 11th, 2014 @ 03:10 pm The Thing About It
Tags:
Mother's Day


I have a friend from High School
who's dead.
Sometimes in front of the T.V. set
I've laughed and there's been
extra grinning in it,
because I'm thinking,
"That was his kind of joke."

Similarly, my mother is dead.
(Except in my dreams:
my subconscious seems to tend to forget
to make her dead in my dreams.)

When I first became a security guard
I stood before the mirror
looking upon my uniform,
and my smile
had extra grinning in it.
Because I was thinking,
"She'd have gotten a kick out of this."

So the thing that we miss
about those that we miss
is the thing that makes friends friends
to begin with.
We miss looking through their eyes.




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
May. 4th, 2014 @ 04:05 pm New Words, Old Feelings
Tags:
Art Is A Blackbird Let Out Of My Heart


Art is an arrow
thrown in a lake,
as an act of violence.

Art is a man without tear ducts,
spilling water on the ground
until his eyes feel empty.

And as the audience packs up to go,
and as the props are put away,
the artist says, within himself,

"Tonight I won a battle
though the war
outlives us all.

"Tonight the rusty cage
of my heart
let some old black birds out,

"and disappearing
in the clouds
they headed toward their home."




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore
Apr. 25th, 2014 @ 08:00 am Out Of Gases To Run Out Of
Tags:
Fatigue


It is a train
pulling out of the station.
And you never run out of station.

And you never run out
of station.
And a voice inside your heart

says, "Just don't let go;
hold on, for as much of forever
as you can."




Nick Moore
About this Entry
The Poet Nicholas Moore